life's for the living, so live it or you're better off dead
by yiangillium
Summary: "He breathes out, shakily, forcing himself to stay calm and collected. Losing control now, so close to the goal, would make all his efforts futile." A series of short stories about two brothers, an illegal treasure hunt and the lengths one is willing to go for survival. Warning for blood, murder, violence and swearing. Slight germancest in the second part. AU.
1. life's for the living

There's blood everywhere. How did it become such a mess?

He almost slips on it when he tries to back away from the motionless body, stumbles and grips onto whatever is closest. Cold stone stains red from where his hands touches.

_Shit shit shit shit_

His heart is beating furiously, _mockingly_, he thinks. Mocking the still heart in the opposite end of the dim crypt. Breathing is hard, the air is stuffy and heavy with the smell of blood and fear.

God, he should have taken the damn time to close the eyes. They're staring at him now, judging him, accusing him, _knowingly_.

He, who's always taken such pride in his fearless and sometimes gateway insane ways of life, is terrified beyond measure, frozen in fear. And of what? A dead body, a pair of cold, lifeless eyes, a secret that remains untold. It is ridiculous.

No one comes down here nowadays anyway. It could take weeks, months even, before it is discovered. By then, he'd be far from here and this nameless body would in no way be connected to him. He could continue his life, push the memories of this day so far back in his mind that they'd never resurface again.

He curls one finger, then another one and another, until his hands are tight fists. He breathes out, shakily, forcing himself to stay calm and collected. Losing control now, so close to the goal would make all his efforts futile.

Slowly, careful not to slip again, he takes a few trying steps closer to the body and the coffin it's laying on. Ironical, isn't it? Dying on a coffin. He almost feels like laughing at it. At the fucking absurdity of the situation. He refrains and silently moves closer.

Hundreds of souls are staring at him, he can feel their angry eyes burning him from the walls, the ceiling, the pillars. Demanding his punishment for disturbing their peace. Shivers chills his bones and for a fragment of a second, he is so very close to turning on his heels and flee the crypt.

But again, he is so close and it would make all his work futile.

Something clangs against his foot and he freezes instantly, terror in his crimson eyes, until he looks down and sees the drenched knife he had used only moments before. He breathes out, calming himself, but his hand is still shaking when he reaches out to close the eyelids of the body. Gods, what has he gotten himself into?

It takes a few tries, but he manages to push the heavy body from the coffin and slide the lid off. A stench of death hits him and he recoils back, fighting down the urge to throw up.

So close now, so incredibly close.

He ties his scarf over his nose and, ignoring the decayed remains of what once was a human, sticks his hand under it, searching.

_Thud, thud, thud_

The unmistakable sound of footsteps reaches his ears and he stiffens. They're heading his way, but yet they're far away. There's plenty of corridors and crossways to turn into, he might be lucky, the footsteps could turn into any other dark and gloomy room.

He's too close to give up now.

His fingers graces cold metal and he smiles triumphantly as they close around the medallion, footsteps temporarily forgotten.

It's beautiful. The light from the torch reflects in the carefully and expertly polished amethyst, coated in gold, with swirls of white gold and precious gemstones engraved along the edge. It comes open with a silent click and a small piece of paper falls out.

The footsteps are coming closer. He hurries to snatch the crumbled note and unfolds it.

Bingo!

With a victorious grin plastered on his lips, he stands and turns to leave, eager to get out of the crypt.

_Karma_, he has the time to think in the seconds between when his feet lose their stability and when he falls head first onto the slippery floor. For a indefinable moment, his head spins and he feels wetness seeping through the thin fabric of his clothes, dyeing his pale skin with the blood of the man he killed.

He aches. Through his half-lidded eyes, he sees the body, carelessly dumped by the wall, and he swears it is mocking him.

_Serves you right_, it says. _You will be found and you will be hanged_

He swears it is laughing at him with those cold lips.

_Death has it coming your way_

What is worse, he realises only seconds later, is the lack of footsteps. The crypt is as silent as death itself.

Then, quicker steps. Quicker and louder, without doubt heading for him.

He pushes up on his knees, head spinning. The medallion is still clutched in his hand. He needs to get out. He can't think clearly, but he knows he needs to get out. Now. He's done for if he is found here.

_Serves you right_, says the body.

"Shut up", he hisses and grabs the knife in his free hand, tucking down the medallion into his jacket pocket. Focus is slowly coming back to him. He stands up, dizzy, and wipes the blood from his brow with the hem of his jacket. It does little to wipe it off, but he doesn't care. He can wash it off as soon as he's out and safe.

"Hello? Who's there?"

He throws the torch in the pool of blood, killing the fire, before he sneaks out from the tomb. Trails of red stalks him, he notices to his dismay. He tugs off his shoes, hiding them in the shadows. The floor is cold under his bare feet. _From the constant presence of death_, he thinks.

The footsteps are slower now, careful, searching. He likes to think they're afraid.

"Hello?" There's a quiver at the end of the syllable.

_The dead won't answer_

Never so quiet, he holds his breath as the guard walks by, casting glances into the tombs, desperation to leave this place evident on her face.

The moment the guard turn into a side path, he takes his chance and sneaks towards the stairs. Not careful enough, though. His head still feels fuzzy and he loses balance for a brief second, stumbling into a pillar.

_Shit shit shit_

"Hey, you!" The footsteps return, faster, more confident and less scared. Maybe the thought of a grave robber rather than a ghost is a comforting one for the guard.

He sets off in a sprint, feet moving on their own accord. Door. Turn. Stairs. Up, up, up.

"Stop right there!"

More stairs. Door. Turn left. A moment of hesitation at the crossing. Stairs. Up. Always up.

The air gets clearer the higher up he comes and he has a harder time to breathe it in for each floor he passes. The guard screams after him. Chasing him up from the home of the dead.

He doesn't stop running until he's deep into the forest. Over stones and fallen trees, through bushes. Stumbling and slipping in the dark until he dares to slow down and stop, in the safety of his usual hideout. There, he collapses onto the ground, laying flat on his back, gasping for air.

With his heart beating heavily in his chest, breath hitched, legs shivering, body aching, he wonders if he's ever felt more alive. He did it. He actually did it.

He digs out the medallion from his pocket and wipes the blood off on the grass. Carefully, he strokes it with thumb and admires the way it glisters in the moonlight. He opens it and once again, unfolds the dirty paper. As much as the piece of jewellery is worth in itself, this old, crumpled paper is priceless in comparison.

A sudden urge to laugh overwhelms him, and he laughs. Loud, mad and beyond exhausted, he laughs. With another man's blood in his hair, dyeing his skin red, drying and flaking like old paint.

_He laughs._


	2. so live it

This isn't how it was supposed to end. Cornered by five guards, defenceless, one hand pressing the cut on his arm, the other clutching a small pouch to his chest.

His heart is beating fast, like a terrified rabbit on the brim of death. How does he get his legs to move, to run, to flee?

"We've got you now, kid", says the tallest of the guards, a sardonic leer adorning her face. Oh, she is enjoying this. Gilbert can see it in her eyes, in her posture, in the way she slowly stalks closer, like a wolf about to strike its prey, but wanting to savour the fear.

There is a window to his left. He judges the distance from the corner of his eye. Three metres. Two floors up. He could make it. If he's lucky, the ground below is covered in bushes, if not, well... Then it's going to hurt a lot more.

"I'd ask you to hand over the pouch, but hey, what good would it do you?" The guard laughs, and the other guards can't hold back their grins. "You'll die either way."

Deep breath. Calm and collected. _Just do it_. _Do it_!

They're walking closer, their steps echoing in the empty room.

If he only could get the element of surprise and get past the guard that stands between him and his freedom. He needs a distraction. Something. Anything. He glances at the pouch. It's what he came here for, but is it worth dying for?

To hell with this. He prefers robbing graves than actual houses. At least the dead doesn't try to kill him.

"Any last words?" Her voice is mocking and condescending. The voice of a person who knows they're in the position of power and can abuse it however they please.

Gilbert looks up, meeting her gaze. He's not afraid, he can't afford to be. One mistake now and he's done for.

"Not tonight", he says and lashes out at the guard on his left. He throws the pouch in his face and dashes for the window. The guard lets out a sound of surprise, but it takes mere seconds before both him and his comrades have registered what Gilbert is doing. A knife flashes by his cheek, gracing the pale skin. There's shouting in the air, but the words are lost to him.

He braces himself for the impact and crashes through the glass, splinters flying all around.

Then he's in the air. Falling free. It's terrifying and relieving and ends too soon. For a moment, the world is spinning and he has to fight to breathe. The bushes eased his fall, but his body aches. Half rolling, half crawling, he gets off them and forces himself to stand.

"Don't just stand there! Get him!"

He doesn't stay to see the first guard follow his path down.

It only takes a few moments before they're all down and chasing him. The pain is forgotten as adrenaline and panic kicks in and all he can think of is getting as far away as possible. He leaves the garden, legs moving on their own accord.

Away from the secluded parts of town, into the streets. If he gets to the more crowded parts, maybe he could blend in and hide. A quick turn left. Over the fence. Through the park. Right, then left again. It doesn't matter where to, just away. He doesn't dare to stop. If he does, he's not sure he'd be able to move again. He can barely breathe, everything aches, but the fear has almost been replaced by the thrill of fleeing. He's getting away! He's alive! Those dumb guards won't catch him.

He can hear them shouting not far behind, but he's faster and knows the streets like his own pocket.

Suddenly someone grabs his arm and roughly pulls him into an alley. Stumbling, he shrieks, but the sound is immediately silenced by a hand clasped over his mouth. He's dragged down to the ground, behind a stinking container, shrouded from the street view. Strong arms are wrapped around him, keeping him immobilised.

He hears the footsteps of the guards chasing him down the street. They shout something to each other and soon the sounds grow distant and eventually dies out.

For several minutes, Gilbert sits frozen on the spot, and so does the person who's keeping him trapped. Then, he lashes out and bites the hand that silences him and struggles to get away. Surprisingly, the arms around him let's go immediately. Gilbert swirls, backing away and preparing an attack. If he's quick enough, he can get in a kick in the stomach before the-

He stops in the middle of the movement.

"Ludwig!" he hisses. "Shit! You fucking scared me!"

The blond man scoffs and brushes off some dirt from his jacket. He sneaks a glance towards the empty street.

"Maybe if you would pay more attention to your surroundings, I wouldn't have to."

"'S not my fault you enjoy having me struggling in your arms."

Gilbert leans back against the cold wall, allowing himself a moment to rest and catch his breath. He watches as Ludwig stands up and opens the lip of the container. A acrid stench wells out and Gilbert has to cover his mouth and nose to not cough. Ludwig glances at him, scrunches his nose, before rolling up his sleeves and reaching down his hand. He pulls up a plastic bag and dumps it on the ground, a disgusted look on his face.

"Still don't understand why they insist on leaving it in places like this", he mutters as he kneels before it and starts untying the knot.

"At least it's not a fucking grave", Gilbert says. "Or a guarded home." He watches Ludwig empty the contents of the bag on the ground. Most of it is just normal garbage, not even that old, but from the way Ludwig curls his lip in disgust and pokes at it, one would think it's a rotting corpse. It's quite entertaining to watch.

"Did you get it?" Ludwig says and the smile fades from Gilbert's lips.

He doesn't answer.

Ludwig looks up, a brow arched questioning.

"Did you?"

"Almost."

A pause.

Then, "so you didn't."

"They would've killed me."

Ludwig sighs and returns his attention to the garbage bag. For several minutes, he works in silence, with occasional grunts and mumbles about "this damn treasure hunt" and "why in the garbage?".

Gilbert closes his eyes. He's so very tired. The adrenaline has left him with little energy. He wants to get this over with so they can return to the hideout and rest. Possibly eat too, if there's anything left to eat. Maybe Ludwig has gotten his hands on food while he was scouting?

"You're hurt", Ludwig says.

Gilbert peers one eye open and notices that the younger boy is staring at him. Probably has been for a while.

"It's nothing."

"Let me see."

"Not with those dirty hands, you can't."

Ludwig sighs and nods, looking down at the mess in front of him.

"But you're going to be fine, right?"

Gilbert lets out a breathy laugh, leaning forward to give his brother a smack on the head.

"Of course. You know me, I'll always be fine."

"Yes, you keep saying that", Ludwig says, rummaging through the trash once more. "Yet you seem to have more injuries and bruises every time you come back."

"Tssk, they're mere scratches. Nothing to worry 'bout."

Ludwig gives him a disbelieving glance, then rolls his eyes.

"If you say so."

Neither of them says anything more until Ludwig suddenly makes an excited sound.

"Found it!"

Gilbert, who has dozed off, stirs awake and shifts so he can see what his brother is holding.

"Lemme see."

It's nothing big, something invaluable to easily be overlooked, yet not impossible to find for those who search. An old, broken pocket watch, with a series of lines and dots carved into the back. It would mean nothing to a stranger, but for the two brothers, it was the next clue.

"Come on, let's get back and see if we can figure it out", Ludwig says and stands up. Gilbert follows his example, only not as smooth. His legs feel wobbly and he must've stood up too quickly, because the world goes dark before his eyes.

Before he falls, Ludwig grabs his arm.

"Heavens, Gilbert! I thought you insisted on being fine."

"Yeah, about that", Gilbert says and leans his head against Ludwig's shoulder. "I might've lied."

"You don't say."

Ludwig tilts his head to press his lips against Gilbert's forehead, sighing. The skin is damp from sweat and almost feverishly warm.

As much as Gilbert normally loves his brother, he is ever so grateful for his presence when they start heading back. He stumbles every now and then, too damn worn-out to really pay attention to what his legs are doing, but Ludwig wraps an arm around his waist and keeps him steady. He doesn't let go until they reach the hideout.

Gilbert immediately throws himself on the bed, a long and exhausted sigh slipping over his lips. It's not much for a bed, but it's better than the floor and that's good enough for both of them.

Gathering the last ounce of energy, he kicks off his shoes and tugs off his jacket, leaving it where it lands on the floor. Ludwig sits down on the side of the bed with a towel, a bucket of water and a couple of band aids.

"Let me see your wounds now."

Gilbert complies without complaint, tugging off his shirt and shudders from the sudden chill. The cut on his arm has stopped bleeding by now, but with all the dried blood and dirt, it looks quite nasty. He winces when his brother carefully starts cleaning it, working with tender and delicate moves.

It's always fascinated Gilbert, how those big and calloused hands which holds the strength to kill a man, can be so gentle and caring.

And only to him. Their tender care is only his, only for him, and it makes his chest swell with pride and contempt.

"What are you smiling at?"

Instead of answering, Gilbert reaches out and pulls Ludwig's head downwards, pressing their lips together in a kiss.

"You can't wait until I'm done patching you up?" Ludwig says when he pulls back, but there's a smile tracing his lips.

"This awesomeness waits for no one, little brother."

"Thought so."

Fastening the band aid with a safety pin, Ludwig takes off his shoes, placing them neatly by the side of the bed before lying down next to Gilbert. He slides his arms around the slender body and breathes in the scent of his brother.

"I'll stay until you're asleep", he murmurs into the almost white hair. It doesn't take many minutes until the body in his arms relaxes and his breaths becomes steady and even. Ludwig tilts his head and plants a trail of soft kisses along Gilbert's neck.

Whatever plan Ludwig had to get up from the bed again is quickly forgotten, as he feels his eyelids grow heavier and the whispers of dreamlands grow louder and oh so tempting.

The deciphering of the pocket watch can wait until the morning.


End file.
